


buttercup

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Guilt, Hurt Some Comfort, Introspection, Masturbation, Mentioned Sylvain Gautier, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Fantasy, Sexuality Crisis, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Sex, extended cws in author's notes, ingrid's comp-het the fic, mentions of past attempted dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: surprise, I'm in the same time,beneath the same sunoh man, you cut me to sizemy little buttercup-Ingrid finds out that Dorothea and him broke up because he couldn’t remember anything about her. Not her birthday, not her favourite foods, not the name of her favourite celebrity, not even the names of the songs she sings for sold-out audiences which do nothing but grow.She promises, hand on Dorothea’s heart, that she’ll always remember what Dorothea tells her. That nothing short of catastrophic memory loss will have her forget- and even if the unspeakable happens, Dorothea will be the first thing she’ll try and relearn.-ingrid loves dorothea in the only way she knows how; in silence.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 12
Kudos: 80
Collections: Wank Week 2020





	buttercup

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for clicking!
> 
> this fic gets heavy at certain points, specifically wrt depictions of (past, attempted) dubcon (attempted by an ex-boyfriend), mild horror/violence imagery and allusions to familial neglect/abuse. if any of these themes will upset you, i recommend clicking away and taking care of yourself.

“I’ve found someone else I’m interested in, you know.”

Ingrid doesn’t move from where she’s lying, flat on Dorothea’s twin-size bed; even though she knows it might be best to get up with some enthusiasm at the news. She goes flat, flatter, instead, and occupies the mouth which might otherwise be tempted to make some sharp criticism of the matter with chewing another limp fry; one of the last of the despairing few lost at the bottom of the bag. 

“He’s good looking,” Dorothea continues, eyes fixed on her phone as she scrolls through her gallery; her plethora of pictures casting a dancing rainbow on her face, “and I’ve met one of his exes.”

Ingrid swallows, and turns her head, passive. The LED lights which cover every corner of Dorothea’s room make her positively woozy, and when her eyes catch some of the splitting light, she flinches at the rose-red haze. 

Still, she doesn’t close her eyes. She chooses to _look_ , and to speak.

“Is that good?”

“ _She_ broke up with _him_.” Dorothea clarifies- at least, Ingrid _thinks_ it’s a clarification. Truthfully, it means something she doesn’t understand, part of some hidden lingo that escapes her. “Which means that whatever the problem was between them, it was more to do with her. Not him.”

Ingrid hums underneath her breath, baiting the silence between them. Some part of her isn’t ready to say that she doesn’t know- doesn’t _understand_ \- the language of man-hunting. So she refrains from saying it, and lets Dorothea fill in the gaps of her knowledge, almost always without being prompted on the matter. 

“A good catch.” Dorothea muses, swiping fast on her phone once more, no doubt bringing something up from one of her multitudes of apps. The speed with which she maneuvers still astounds Ingrid, who obtained a touch-screen phone mere months earlier, relying before on some old brick her father handed her when he’d had to upgrade for work. It’s not solely the movement which impresses her, either. Dorothea’s nails are glazed with some smooth scarlet coating- rich, lustrous, and markedly marvelous, at least with their self-application in mind. 

It’s nothing that Ingrid wants, regardless of Dorothea’s many offers to arrange such for her. She can hardly put a name to why, despite her fascination with the dancing, intricate things, she has no interest in acquiring them for herself. So she doesn’t try- she just gazes, watches Dorothea dance somewhere other than a stage. 

“Do you want to see him?” 

Dorothea’s voice is _warm_ , and _inviting_ , and thoroughly distinct to the one which shines through as she sings. Ingrid finds the idea of seeing some stranger who might find himself lucky enough to be Dorothea’s next paramour distasteful- hearing Dorothea’s affectionate voice again less so. 

“Of course.” Ingrid lies. Dorothea resumes her energetic tapping, and Ingrid closes her eyes again, though the red light never quite dissipates from the corners of her vision. 

She indulges, for one lonely minute, the selfish, inexplicable desire to have Dorothea all to herself. 

Her eyelids flicker open again only when Dorothea taps her gently on the shoulder, causing her to twitch ever-so-slightly. She glances upwards, and her gaze meets, on instinct, the young man in the photo that Dorothea is hovering mere inches away from her face. 

He’s not _unattractive_. Ingrid gives Dorothea that, at least. He’s fair-haired, with prominent cheekbones and a handsome nose, somewhat offset by the night-black beanie he’s donning like a helmet. Ingrid can’t imagine herself being attracted to him- then again, she never can. It’s not a decision that she gets to make, after all. 

“What do you think?” 

When Dorothea asks her that, Ingrid has never been quite sure how she’s expected to respond. A sincere dismay regarding her choice of mate only ever invites comments on her own lack of taste; approval makes no difference whatsoever. Instead of venturing for some partisan choice, she just _nods_ , and bites her tongue. 

“Well, I suppose I can live with that. You let me cast plenty of scrutiny over the men in _your_ life, after all.” Dorothea acknowledges, her nails resuming their perpetual clicking against the keyboard. 

Silently, Ingrid remarks to herself that they’re hardly in her _life_. _They’re_ in some part separate from her “life”, as she envisions it. Far from her exams and her grades, from her sports or her horseback riding. 

Not what she wants, but what she needs. 

It’s not a situation unique to her. Dorothea’s contract has her moved into one of the prime residential neighbourhoods in the city- but it’s a contract, and one day, it will end. So could her voice, or her looks, or people’s interest in the music she makes the best. In the face of such insecurity, each of her dating profiles is a safety mechanism, a hand which might successfully reach into the unknown. A steady stream of _handsome, wealthy, privilege-sickened boys,_ each of whom could take Dorothea in the way she needed, and spare her from the existential threat of existing too long and too deeply.

Whether Dorothea is attracted to them was a question that Ingrid considers herself better-off not asking. All potential answers represent a threat, and so Ingrid reminds herself that, as with many things, the less she knows, the better. 

“Do you remember the one who tried to fuck you without protection?” 

Dorothea’s sudden statement startles Ingrid again, and it’s then that she realizes that her eyes have fluttered shut once more, a defense against _something_.

“Yes. I do.”

-

He was the son of a family friend; to the extent that anyone you were indebted to could be called your _friend._ A year older than Ingrid, with a reputable social standing and a calm demeanor, he had seemed _nice_ , if little else. Indeed, Ingrid had supposed they could be together without too much trouble; even if his upcoming departure to college was to prove troublesome. 

The time they’d spent together had, like the man in question, been _pleasant enough_. He was hardly interested in Ingrid’s hobbies, and was outwardly critical of Ingrid’s interest in martial arts- something which Dorothea had indicated was a bad sign, though at the time, Ingrid’s characteristic stubbornness had made her incapable of listening. But what overlap they had- writing, food, attending sports games- had seemed entirely sufficient. If he were not to be a permanent partner, then he could at least be temporary company. Balm, applied to a wound otherwise incapable of healing, or respite for the hungry eyes and mouths of each obscure and disgraced relative the Galatea family carried like stones in the pocket. 

_Had she enjoyed his presence?_

Even in this moment, with Dorothea subtly reminding her of just how disastrously downhill everything had gone after their (unknowingly final) “baseball date”, the question was one Ingrid couldn’t answer. Not even to herself, within the solace of her own mind. 

Instead, she thought, with no conclusion in mind. About how he’d taken her on his preferred date- two seats for a baseball game, with no regard to the teams playing- had held her hand, tentative, and bought her soda and hotdogs from the overpriced vendors. Even though baseball was far from Ingrid’s favourite sport, she had paid attention, the ungainliness and strangeness of the game put to the back of her mind. As far as she’d been concerned- still was concerned, even now- she had done everything right, and his performance had been satisfactory.   
  
It had not been enough.

Ingrid continues to think, the cross-legged Dorothea by her side flicking through some photo album, idly editing the pictures inside.

When they’d returned to his house for the night, he’d insisted he had something to give her, though he’d only be able to hand it over in the confines of his bedroom. In the comforting pride of Dorothea’s presence, Ingrid couldn’t help but feel a fool for how she fell for something so evidently dubious. Because she’d agreed, back then, putting aside any complaint; assuming her cooperation was, as it often was, the key to some greater reward. 

The words Dorothea had spoken to her at the end of the night began to ring in her head, almost involuntarily. 

_I didn’t want to warn you_ , she’d said. _But I’m beginning to regret that I didn’t_.

He’d led her up the stairs; a pristine faux-wood spiral which brought them to the second floor of the three-floor home his family inhabited. It was mostly empty space, then, though Ingrid knew they had lived there for years prior to that day. Something about how the floor-plan seemed to expand in each direction, without anything occupying the space, had put her on edge. Still, she’d kept quiet. The young man by her side- Ingrid didn’t care to remember his name- had started to approach, the space between them growing increasingly less substantial with each hollow footstep he took. 

“You’re cold.” he’d said.

For a moment, Ingrid had considered some rebuttal to his unwarranted assertion of how she felt. At the last moment, when the words were beginning to ache at the back of her throat, she’d backed out, faced with the emotional weight of complaint. 

Her teeth gritted, she’d nodded. Without warning, her companion took the break in her defences as his chance to slip his hand onto her shoulder, breaking through the shielding of her seafoam-blue shell-collar blouse as if it had simply ceased to exist. And though she’d tensed, and tried to divert her gaze from whatever horrid emotion marred his face, Ingrid could not fully distract herself from the cold emptiness which seemed to shimmer in the corner of her eye. 

“I’ll warm you up.”

Ingrid had wanted to kill him. 

Though she was hardly able to consider herself a horror-film buff, there were always those Mercedes had invited her to watch in Ashe’s absence. In the parts of her which were not solely devoted to maintaining her countenance; lest she be scorned, images of bodies dragged limp and drained of blood across marble floors and into the thickest of woods had begun to spark. Red, violent, fearful retribution, lightning strikes which further stoked a wildfire. 

It was rare the culprits escaped unscathed, of course. And whatever indignity she was about to endure, she’d rationalized, was infinitely preferable to becoming a convicted killer. So she’d continued to hold her breath, tried to halt the way her heartbeat accelerated at the touch. 

Smelling of fear, she’d told herself, was an easy way to come out of the situation she’d found herself in with otherwise-avoidable wounds. 

The boy had slipped his hand further down Ingrid’s chest, tracing the line of her breastbone before he dipped, coming to cup the soft warmth of her right breast in his hand. He did not rub where it swelled, nor did he move much at all. He simply stood, and held, like he was clutching a war-prize. 

“You’re going to come to bed with me, right?”

Despite herself, Ingrid had nodded, sincere as she could make herself be. The young man who crowded her ripped himself away suddenly, rendering her cold, and tugged harshly on the arm which she had left hanging by her side. He urged her forward, and brought her to an unmarked off-white door.

It opened at his turn of the doorknob, other hand occupied still with gripping Ingrid’s wrist. He’d tugged her inside, and though she didn’t resist, she hesitated by the door.

There was to be no gift. 

She could hardly put herself together in that moment; a fact that her companion was quick to take advantage of, slipping a hand onto each of her thighs and _whispering_ , slow and breathy, into her ear. 

“You’re ready for me.”

_I’m not. I’m not. I’m not._

_I don’t want this._

“... You’ll use protection, right?”

Ingrid could hardly stomach putting voice to the depth of her feelings. She doubted that it would do much good, even if she did. But if she could protect one aspect of her dignity, she had been determined to do so. To be bound with the child of a close family compatriot- any plans she had for university, for athletics, for anything- they would all be quashed. 

“It’s your first time.” he’d insisted. “It can’t happen if it is.” 

That, Ingrid knew was false. She suspected that he, too, knew much the same.

“Alright.”

It took every ounce of her strength to not spit, to not bite and snap and hiss at him. Like one of the cornered strays which Ashe picked up from the streets; the indignity of her peril seemed as if it could be warned off, at least temporarily, by her resistance. 

Still, there were smarter ways to go about it. In the moment where she’d said _alright_ , where she’d seemed clueless and vulnerable, his face had lit up like a fire. It was disgusting- at any other time, she would have wrinkled the nose as such behaviour. But the plan which it set blooming in her mind needed to be implemented as quickly as she could do so; and so she put her repulsion aside.

“Can I text my friend, and tell her where I’m going to be?” Ingrid made her voice girlish and sweet with the words, a demureness contrary to her base instincts. “We were thinking about watching a movie later. I have to tell her that I’m going to be.. busy.”

The fake lust in her enunciation of the word sickened Ingrid, tasting rancid in her throat. But the sensation was abated, somewhat, by the way he looked at her, _willing_ for the first time that night.

“‘Course you can, baby.”

He had never called her baby before. 

Ingrid thought again about one particular horror film she’d watched with Mercedes; about a convent of nuns who had conspired to murder a philandering priest. It was Mercedes’ favourite, though Ingrid had been ambivalent towards it on the first watch. But one scene had seared itself in her mind; one particular shot, close to the end. Father Jonathan, hanging, the flesh peeled away from his tenderest parts. Muscle underneath the skin _writhing_ , dressed with blessed salt. 

The image lingering in her mind, she’d wasted no time in fishing the phone from her pocket- an inconspicuous thing, some brick with only the barest of online features. Right then, though, it was all that Ingrid needed. With as much grace as she could muster, her fingers tapped out a curt message to Dorothea- her top contact, barring her parents and Sylvain. 

Exhausted and asleep for the former, piss-drunk and probably trying to watch the news on a storefronts’ TV for the latter.

She was her best option.

_152 Boyle Street. I will come running_.

When the message buzzed, indicating its transmission, Ingrid breathed a hesitant, internal sigh of relief. 

“I let her know.” Ingrid had said, punctuating the neutral statement with an alluring bite to her lower lip. “We can do whatever we want.”

Ingrid knew that there was no _we_ here, no possible contribution she could make. For five minutes, she closed her eyes, and let her associate palm her clothed body with the rough skin of his hands, shifting only when she had a chance to let the fabric protect her more thoroughly. 

When another text arrived, minutes after the one she’d sent, she kissed him for the first time, and told him to ignore it. She teased him, and drew out each forced movement of her body, relying on the more complicated fixtures attached to her clothing to keep her safe. Each button which proved too twiddly, each strap he couldn’t figure out how to maneuver around- a small victory, gained as Ingrid waited for the distant buzz of Dorothea’s engine.

When it emerged in the distance, Ingrid thanked the Goddess. Such silent praise was hardly her forte, but in that moment, she felt closer to the Goddess’s hand than she had ever felt before. 

Perhaps that was just how Dorothea made her feel. 

Somewhere in the middle of Michael running his finger around the waist of her white jeans, she’d pushed him away, though with such gentleness that it was hardly as if she could have moved him had he not allowed her to do so. She’d announced, her voice stuttering, that she needed to use the bathroom, barely giving him chance to respond before she darted. All capacity she had to process information was sacrificed for speed, the sheer _need_ to leave. Though he had already made up the distance partially by the time Ingrid had worked the door open- without her knowledge, its small metal bolt had been twisted into place- her escape from the bedroom was as she intended it to be; _unscathed_. 

With the footsteps behind her unceasing, she had precious little time to contemplate her next move. She glanced, briefly, at the railings, trying to deduce whether a fall from such a height could injure her. 

It didn’t take her long to decide against the jump, however- if she was injured, and couldn’t walk to the door, then there would truly be nothing for her to do. Instead, all focus on maintaining the integrity of her balance down the twisting shape, she darted down the stairs. Each step was over in an instant; but seemed to last a thousand years, or at least to be aging her that long. The whole time, hearing Michael’s voice ring out from behind her, a siren’s song of false apology. 

“Where are you going?”

It tore against everything Ingrid knew, everything she’d ever learned, for her to not respond to the exclamations. Her adrenaline-addled brain managed it, still, somehow, kept her chained to the task at hand; leaving, and never coming back. 

_Dorothea will be outside_. Ingrid repeated it to herself like a mantra, an oath, til the words cut gently into her skin and made their home inside of her. _She’ll be outside, and everything will be fine_. 

_You just have to say it louder than the footsteps, louder than the yelling. Louder than anything else._

The house was so much _bigger_ than it needed to be, so full of nothing. _As if its inhabitants can afford to throw everything away_ , Ingrid thinks. Though not an unaccomplished runner, having to move so delicately across the stairs made Ingrid’s legs ache, a sensation compounded by the impractical constriction of her summer outfit and the heat still hanging in the air. It makes her feel a deep well of pity for the exhausted animals that stock every nature documentary she’s ever seen, either aching from the hunt or aching from being the hunted. 

At least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel for _her_. 

By the time Ingrid reached the bottom floor, Michael hadn’t managed to catch up with her. He was still halfway down the stairs, clearly struggling with the same matters of dexterity that Ingrid had contested with, and Ingrid allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief before she darted, ignoring the fire-hollowed space in her chest, for the heavy wooden door which barred her from the outside world. 

In the moment when she pulled the door towards her, Ingrid was sure that she had never exerted such sheer force against another object as she had done then. Still, it heaved, its weight increased by the application of meaningless metal details to its surface, faux-aged and stylistic. It was only fully pried open by the time Michael had, himself, arrived at the bottom floor, and begun his own dash towards Ingrid. Fearing him more than the potential crush of the door, she darted, fitted herself through the slim opening without a moment of consideration to an alternative. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, _bitch_?”

It jaded Ingrid, then and there, that it felt much better for him to yell and curse at her than for him to call her _baby_. When the heavy door shut behind her, she did not once look back, instead taking to the light of Dorothea’s car as if she were a moth seeking the moon. No part of her ceased its flurried panic til she had worked her way fully into the passenger seat, until she had leaned herself firmly against the headrest and breathed a sigh of bitter relief. 

“Just drive. Go.” Ingrid spluttered, voice hoarse from fearful exhaustion. It was all the encouragement Dorothea had needed to bring the car once more into action, the hum of the metal carcass which surrounded her more soothing than it had ever been before. When the sound of a door opening had emanated from behind her, she did not care to turn her head, or to speak a word of it to Dorothea. 

From the look Dorothea flashed her as she sucked in every breath she could, infinite in its warmth and understanding, Ingrid knew that she, too, knew. 

_You’re safe_ , it conveyed. _I’m going to make you safe_. 

-

It’s that look, more than anything, that Ingrid cares to remember. Even now, when it’s just the two of them. She’d contemplated it for a while, after Dorothea had dropped her back home (with a lap of takeout food, that she hadn’t even _needed_ to ask for), and came to the conclusion that nobody had ever looked at her quite like that. 

Frankly, she hadn’t been sure whether to feel happy someone _understood_ , or a profound sense of despair at the knowledge that Dorothea had experienced something much the same before. She’d never made up her mind on the matter, either; like many things, Ingrid had deemed it best to fester, lest it trouble her actively. Dorothea had never discussed the matter openly with her, nor had Ingrid ever had the stomach to push a dialogue on the subject. 

_If they were both silent_ , Ingrid had decided, _then neither of them would have to bear the suffering of acknowledgement_.

That night had never come up in discussion with anyone else. Despite their connection, Ingrid could not bring herself to think that Sylvain or Felix would be receptive on the issue, and Dimitri had been taken ill that week- the only week Ingrid had told herself she’d be allowed to think any further of the incident. It had been a secret between her and Dorothea- it still was. The girl who’d offered her contraception the morning after; who’d offered to call a support line for her; all before Ingrid could explain that it hadn’t gone as far as _that_. It carried with it a dark comfort, knowing that if it really and truly had gone to that point, that Dorothea would not have turned her back on her. 

Back then, she’d doubted that the same could be said for her family. Once the news reached them, such doubt had only deepened. Though they’d refrained from punishing her, Ingrid wasn’t stupid- she knew what _shame on the family_ meant, what was required from her when they’d insisted she was _better behaved_ in the future. 

Dorothea had told her that it was unfair; that she deserved better. 

Dorothea had _cared_. 

It’s hard not to want her close, not to wish they’d stay the way they are forever, lying adjacent on her twin-size mattress. There’s nothing Ingrid can do on the matter, of course. She doubts she’ll ever be brave enough to make a move, or to do anything but reject Dorothea’s slight and instinctual flirtations. And that’s if she’s ever able to contest with the guilt that wells up at the _wanting_ of her, which ties itself into so many knots that Ingrid can no longer distinguish between the platonic and the romantic. What a cruel joke, she thinks, to make me the person that I am. 

Perhaps it would be better if she were a boy. She doesn’t _want_ to be one, she’s fairly sure- she doesn’t think of herself as one, though she knows some people feel different from what others tell them. But if she could assume the form of one, or something close, it would be easier. She could have Dorothea, in the proper sense. 

She could do _right_ by her. Just the thought of it is intoxicating. Healing Dorothea of the part of her that knows what Ingrid, too, knows, and at some point, eradicating it from herself. 

But she can’t. Dorothea is going on a date with another boy, and Ingrid is counting down the days til her parents unsubtly insist that she’s been hanging onto _Michael_ \- now at university, three hours away- for much too long. 

None of which stops Ingrid gazing wistfully at Dorothea’s bare stomach when her shirt raises as she stretches, of course.

-

The next time Ingrid sees Dorothea, they’re in public. 

She doesn’t intend it. Which is not to say that she’s not happy to see her, but that when she spots the trim black-shirt and jeans combination out of the corner of her eye at the ice cream parlour, it’s (almost) entirely a coincidence. 

An awkward one, because Dorothea is there with her new boyfriend. The one she’d shown her, that gritty picture, a shapeless face and understated fashion- Ingrid recognizes him as soon as he comes to her side in the queue, mumbling something-or-other to her. For a moment, Ingrid considers snooping in on their exchange, but the din in the venue is too great for her to hear anything he’s saying, and after a frustrating few moments of trying to catch the voice which speaks after Dorothea does, she sighs, audible, and lowers her head back to the banana split she’s been non-commitantly working her way through for the past half-an-hour.

If he weren’t there, Ingrid knows she’d get up and talk to Dorothea. Something about his presence _crowds_ her, as if some part of Dorothea is consumed by her proximity to the young man Ingrid couldn’t be less interested in if she tried. _Perhaps_ , she thinks, _it’s the way that Dorothea becomes around people she’s trying to gain access to that puts me off_. _Less acrid, and more people-pleasing, as if she simply doesn’t see any of the things which she’d otherwise point out to me in a heartbeat_. 

_Not much different from me_. _Except that she seems able to stop_. 

Despite her attempt to look away, their figures shift in the corner of Ingrid’s vision. She catches them, unwillingly, in a subtle embrace, a shaky kiss being placed on Dorothea’s rose-blushed cheek.

It makes her _ache_. She draws closer to the half-eaten bowl in front of her, head-down, close enough that it almost touches one of the whipped-cream mounds piled up on the ice cream. Her eyes shut tight, and her fists curl into tight balls around the tough fabric of her long, blue-denim skirt.

_Perhaps I’m just jealous_. 

She’s not, after all, entirely innocent in coming where she does. Ingrid can’t remember the last time she’s gone out for dessert entirely by herself, after all. Even _she’s_ aware how much more in-character it would be for her to visit a takeout, or a sandwich store, to while away her hours of dismay in front of a slowly-dwindling carton of fries. 

This is Dorothea’s favourite place. It’s closer to her home than it is Ingrid’s, and whenever they talk about going out, it’s the first place she suggests- even if Ingrid, more often than not, gives her an unsubtle rejection. Of course, with Ingrid lacking many of the social media accounts on which Dorothea’s daily life is extensively journalled, it’s not as if she can predict where she is. Nor did she invite her.

_Which, of course, makes this a coincidence_. Ingrid tells herself it several times, until her vision begins to swim with strange, bright shapes, and she has to briefly open them to the light spilling in from outside. 

But she’d be lying to herself if she said that the sheer possibility of Dorothea’s presence wasn’t a deciding factor in her coming to the parlour, as endlessly sweet and pastel-pretty as it is. 

Truthfully, visiting somewhere to eat isn’t high on her priority list in the first place. When Ingrid runs through the list of things she has to get done soon in her head, whatever _this_ is features as more of an annoyance than anything. After all, there’s ice cream at home- or barring that, ice cream at the store. Cheaper to get, and unreliant on her going out of her way to this _place_ , this crowded and sweet and child-filled _place_ that she’s unsure if she can fully stomach being in without company. But both other options require her being at home. 

The thought of being at home- it cuts her like a pen-knife, or a bug that bites all over. Her entire body _shivers_ , though the ice cream she’s apathetically spooning into her mouth is long too lukewarm to induce such coldness. It is not a pleasant thought. She thinks she might even favour stumbling through an awkward conversation with Dorothea’s boyfriend over heading back, as terrible as it sounds. 

Her parents are- _fine_ , for the most part. _Good_ , even, when they’re not looking to interfere with her life. Or, insisting that their well-intentioned but greatly unsubtle meddling isn’t happening at all. It’s her brothers that are the problem. To the extent it’s almost _funny_ , how there’s somehow something worse than being the gifted younger sister to maladjusted teen twin boys several years older than you, and that it’s being the younger sister when they’re college-aged and back home for spring break. 

Absence, as it turns out, does not always make the heart grow fonder. Ingrid wonders, idly, if there’s an expression which conveys the opposite, perhaps something less catchy, but equally a potential. 

Like, “ _Absence makes the heart realize just how good things are without you around_.” Or, _“Absence makes me sleep better at night, do better in school, and means my friends will actually sometimes agree to come and visit my house._ ”

It’s not like Ingrid hasn’t been through it before. If anything, she should be prepared- inoculated, even, by the many years of experience she’s had with them around. But, surprising Ingrid’s own conceptions of what’s possible, they’ve gotten _worse_. This year, it’s not solely the summer that they’re back for, either. In some strange turn of fate, they’ve both abandoned their traditional “ _beach-party-roadtrip_ ” event for a cushy two weeks in the nest, bringing music and women and their _screaming_ , their _all-night screaming at stupid video games that don’t matter_ , back where Ingrid thought she’d finally escaped it. The weather isn’t good enough in Fhirdiad yet for them to occupy themselves with dirt-biking or endless outdoor basketball, either, making everything so much more nightmarish. 

Her parents won’t do anything. If there’s anything Ingrid has grown entirely used to, it’s that. When the two of them hit puberty, and grew strong and tall enough to overpower either of them with little effort, all attempts on the matter had stopped entirely, and they’d never resumed. When Richard came home with a fine for drunk driving, all they’d been able to do about it was stare disapprovingly at her still-drunk, close-to-being-expelled big brother, and sigh, as he ranted on about something or other (the noise had awoken her, not the words.) When Henry had entered that internet wormhole of venomous women-hating in his final year, turning every mealtime into a chance to proselytize on how women were vile and ruinous things, there had been no word on the matter. Aside from her mother pulling her aside after dinner and reassuring her that she wasn’t like that, and that her brother’s words shouldn’t dissuade her from getting married in the future. 

_Which_ \- Ingrid doubted that that counted, and had begun to doubt the matter more each day. 

Her grievances read off in her head like the stream of a printing press, a bitter portent of the world that awaits her should she decide that the weight of being a person in public is simply too much to bother with. But they _distract_ her, and in the storm of her contemplation, the burning itch of Dorothea’s presence, her understanding ear and her enduring companionship, begins to subside.

Until her voice is suddenly closer, rising above the sheer din of the crowd surrounding Ingrid. 

“This is a good spot.”

It’s coming from in front of me, Ingrid thinks. Half-unwilling, she wrenches her eyes open, looks to catch sight of her, even though she knows it’ll only make things worse if she _is_ there. If she sees Ingrid, and Ingrid ends up third-wheeling on her date. 

A thicket of dark-brown hair, visible through the haze of her just-opened eyes, is the first thing that alerts Ingrid to Dorothea’s presence. She supposes it could be anyone’s- it’s not an uncommon hair colour, after all- but from the second it comes into vision, there’s not a part of her that doubts it’s _her_. Still, she has no desire to be caught looking closer, so her further observation is filtered through a movement-less, peephole gaze. Watching, as still as a bird striking at an insect, Dorothea sit down at the wall table two booths ahead of her. Her back is turned, so all that Ingrid can see of her is her hair, apparently having removed her signature hat for the date. 

It’s perhaps for the best, Ingrid rationalizes. Because there’s a part of her, incurring guilt just by existing, that knows she’s going to keep listening to what Dorothea says. It’s none of her business- but _Goddess_ , how she wants it to be. 

The desire is nearly impossible to stem. Hunching her face closer to the table, she pricks her ears to filter everything but Dorothea’s conversation out. It's a trick she’d once learned from Ashe when he’d talked about his archery instruction, and it’s not one she feels particularly good about utilizing to spy on people. Not when Ashe had emphasized, as resolute as he always seemed, how it was supposed to be used only to focus on the vital. 

_Not_ , as Ingrid was going to use it for, on creating more problems, more upset, for yourself. 

The first bit of the conversation starts exactly as Ingrid expects it will. Dorothea and her boyfriend exchange routine chatter, all without mentioning anyone else. 

The weather- clear. The weather tomorrow- also, hopefully, clear. The week so far has been fine, and neither of them are particularly busy for the next few days. They’ve both ordered, though Ingrid can’t see what they’ve chosen, and the pleasantries they exchange on that subject go mostly over her head. 

_Dorothea’s favourite ice cream flavour is chocolate chip,_ Ingrid mutters, silent, to herself. _I bet he doesn’t know that. I bet he won’t remember, if she even tells him_. 

She flinches, then, at her own thoughts. How she’s becoming distracted by them, and how vitriolic they are. _He’s probably a nice young man_ , she tries to tell herself, and _you have no reason to assume otherwise- not even when so many people try to get their selfish hands on her_ \- 

_Calm. Be calm._

The thoughts are hard to push away, regardless of how badly Ingrid wants them gone. They overshadow the conversation that Dorothea is having with her boyfriend- the reason she’s sitting where she is in the first place- and make her lurch in some uneasy space, teetering between anger and hopelessness. Ingrid’s hands grip the nearest things they can reach and tug, both an anchoring motion and a release of anger. 

She _lectures_ herself, body braced and tense as stone. 

_You’re being ridiculous. When she actually asked you out, you told her that you weren’t gay. You don’t have any right to act as if **you’re** being wronged here, Ingrid._

_But it does feel terrible. It feels like you’re eating yourself alive._

For the first time in a long time, Ingrid doesn’t keep fighting how she feels. One hand releases itself from its tensed grip and darts towards her handbag, almost involuntarily. Ingrid swings the strap around her neck, and straightens herself out, rolling her shoulders backwards with burning, hardly-restrained envy still quelling in her stomach. Without failing to scoop more of the melting ice cream into her mouth before she makes her exit, Ingrid takes to her feet, adopts a pose that’s so staunch it’s almost comical (and she _knows_ that), and taps her foot insistently on the linoleum flooring below her. 

_I’m going to leave_ , Ingrid tells herself.

And then, she does. The less she thinks about it, the easier it is. When Dorothea and her boyfriend become just a blur in the corner of her eye, it’s _easy_ , when she doesn’t pay attention to the way his hair is short and cropped and handsome around his face without his signature stupid hat, it’s _easy_. 

At least, it’s easier. Either way, she ends up outside without even processing that fact; at least not until the breeze hits her, a gentle reminder of where she is, and who she is. 

_Jealous_ , is who she is. For reasons Ingrid can’t explain to herself, she wants Dorothea by her side, eating ice cream and gently joking underneath the gentle boughs of some beautiful tree. Even though she’s not gay- even though she doesn’t want to be.

She’s not.

She can’t be.

So she isn’t, right?

-

The next time they meet, Ingrid comes to Dorothea’s house.

It’s an unplanned affair, with Ingrid’s phone going off in the course of a lazy sun-warmed afternoon, insisting that her _presence be made apparent_ at Dorothea’s home (her words, not Ingrid’s). Without anything to stand in the way of it, and a clear-if-masked urgency in Dorothea’s tone, Ingrid doesn’t hesitate, though the lingering bad taste in her mouth from the last time they encountered each other (without Dorothea’s knowledge, of course) does not wash away. Instead, it lingers, the background noise of Ingrid gathering everything she deems important into a large shopping bag and heading out the door, barely stopping to inform her parents of where she’s going. From the way nobody reacts to the opening and closing of the door, Ingrid suspects that they didn’t hear her- but it’s Dorothea her mind is on, and any qualms they have with her departure are something Ingrid decides they’ll have to deal with themselves. 

The walk to the bus stop which passes by Dorothea’s house isn’t a long one; despite the complaints made by wealthier neighbours, the Council hasn’t made the decision to remove it, and Ingrid can’t help but feel thankful for that. Her year-long pass buzzes her through at the door, and the moment that she finds a seat, Ingrid whips out her phone and begins to type as fast as she can.

_I’m on my way_. 

Her eyes shut, earbuds still in, shielding her from the outside world. She’s taken the journey dozens of times; albeit to several different places, and when the bus approaches Dorothea’s Mittelfrank Studios-owned home, Ingrid hops off without needing to confirm the location at all. The warm air hits her as she steps out, makes her feel invigorated, though the feeling can’t contend with the knowledge that Dorothea has something to tell her. _That_ thought makes Ingrid walk with speed and confidence to the door of Dorothea’s house, almost as if what’s bothered her is dissipating, replacing itself with the anticipation of more time spent together. 

When Dorothea pulls the door back slowly, a frown carved onto her face, all of said excitement begins to flare and pop inside of Ingrid, a violent reaction with a source that Ingrid is markedly reluctant to place. 

“We broke up.” Dorothea mumbles, head hung low. “I was getting lonely. I thought you might be up for some girl time together.”

Ingrid’s face goes blank, her mind stripped of its ability to formulate a response. 

  
“Just us, Ingrid.”

In the sorrow so firmly planted on Dorothea’s face, and in the desire that swells in her heart when Dorothea affirms that it’s _her_ she wants, just _her_ and nobody else, Ingrid can’t help but wonder if she’s finally become familiar with the idea of a pyrrhic victory. 

-

Ingrid sleeps at Dorothea’s house that night.

She doesn’t intend for that to be the arrangement. Not initially, at least. But the evening builds like firewood on a flame, and Ingrid finds herself once more enraptured by Dorothea’s charm, burning strong regardless of her grief. 

Ingrid finds out that Dorothea and him broke up because he couldn’t remember anything about her. Not her birthday, not her favourite foods, not the name of her favourite celebrity, not even the names of the songs she sings for sold-out audiences which do nothing but grow. 

She promises, hand on Dorothea’s heart, that she’ll always remember what Dorothea tells her. That nothing short of catastrophic memory loss will have her forget- and even if the unspeakable happens, Dorothea will be the first thing she’ll try and relearn.

Her assertions make Dorothea giggle, girlish mirth building at the back of her throat. At some point, Dorothea’s hand comes to rest on hers, and she whispers into Ingrid’s ear. 

“You’re so wonderful, Ingrid. Like a better version of him.”

And in one, torrential wave, all that Ingrid understands of her emotions towards Dorothea’s (now ex-)boyfriend is restructured, leaving her dumbfounded. 

As it turns out, much too dumbfounded to want to leave Dorothea’s presence at all that night. 

-

Eventually, the _understanding_ becomes much too great. 

For the first time, Ingrid touches herself to the thought of Dorothea. 

It’s easier, she finds, if she shuts her eyes for it; and lets a blank, red-tinted field of darkness manifest in front of her. Radiant, despite how it overwhelms her, confounds her where she stands when Dorothea tells her that _yes_ , she _does_ have it on all day. So reminiscent of her friend, her confidante, that solely to imagine it summons the scent of Dorothea. Her perfume, her endless makeup products, her all-natural sour cherry shampoo and hour long hair-care routine. The one she sometimes lets Ingrid be privy to, despite how strongly she insists that it’s a secret, because there’s something about her that’s different. 

Perhaps that’s Dorothea’s way of saying that she doesn’t take good care of her hair. Even if it is, the thought of such hardly impacts Ingrid; she’s probably right, after all. 

Her room is pitch-black, with the ever-open curtains shut to block the silver shimmer of the moon. Everyone is asleep, and silent, except for Ingrid. 

There are to be no distractions. What Ingrid wants to focus on is _her_. The girl, chocolate-haired and brutal in her honesty, that had held Ingrid. That had not let her go, regardless of the miseries she had dragged into her life. For when the fingers which slip between her thighs become Dorothea’s, the sensation is unfathomably divine, even with such little friction applied against her pleasure. When the red-hot haze which coats her eyelids manifests her, below Ingrid, stripped bare above the waist, another wave of arousal jolts through her. 

“You look so beautiful.”

Dorothea isn’t there with her. Ingrid knows that, doesn’t try to create the illusion that she is. But there is nobody but herself to quell the need to tell Dorothea, to inform her of the strange feelings that she bears as a weight. Indeed, as the strange lens of the mind dips deeper past her face, Ingrid can’t help but be drawn to each feature; derived from loose swimsuit-gaze observations. Her breasts, round and sweet, with taut, dusky apexes.

“I could say the same about you,” Dream-Dorothea retorts, a sweet contemplation on her face. “ _Handsome_.”

The nickname, though it’s only Ingrid making Dorothea speak it, sets something off inside of her. With a jagged motion, unassisted by her lack of vision, her underwear comes off, tugged awkwardly with the hand that’s not beginning to press with fervour against the blood-swollen flesh of her clit. Such sudden intensity sets her off balance, but it’s something that she quickly regains, the unshaking image of Dorothea crystal clear in her mind. How she shifts, how she reaches up to cup the smallness of Ingrid’s breast when she does, deigning to grace its sensitive peak with a single kiss. 

“So generous, Ingrid. So good.”

Several fingers of the hand Ingrid has pressed against her warmth enter deeper, A _full_ sensation, albeit one that feels easier to handle. 

Goddess, how bad she wants to help Dorothea feel this way. To insert herself into Dorothea’s sensitivity, to cherish it and guard it and keep it and _remain there_ \- 

It’s all so very much. But the Dorothea of Ingrid’s vision doesn’t mind. Instead, she lets Ingrid wrap her palms around her waist, and use them to slip away the thin skirt which hangs around her lance-width waist. She revels in being undressed by her friend, being so close to her without remorse or shame. Her underclothes are absent, saving Ingrid the effort of undressing her further. 

Not that she minds the idea, of course.

“Good, Ingrid.” Dorothea reminds her. It’s the third time, but Ingrid can’t help but revel in the satisfaction that it causes her. She _wants_ to be good. Wants to lie on top of Dorothea like a man might, and indulge her. 

In the dream, Ingrid’s body shifts. Something takes up place against her clit- something solid, something curved. When she glances down, it becomes more evident what she’s unconsciously summoned. A long, blatantly-fake sky-blue silicone _cock_ , ridged down each side and lying flat on the nape of Dorothea’s stomach.

“What’s the matter, Ingrid?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know. “Do you have second thoughts about filling me up with you, hm?”  
  
 _Hardly_ , Ingrid thinks, hardly able to restrain herself from drooling passively on the floral embroidery of her pillowcase at the prospect. She supposes that it might seem strange for her to actively imagine Dorothea making her little slights against her- it is, after all, a fantasy. But there’s something about them that makes Dorothea all the more _real_. She knows what Ingrid wants before she does, so prescient. When Dorothea tells her something, it’s true. And when her dreamland approximation of the other girl points out how apparent her aching is, it’s as a conduit for the thoughts that Ingrid can’t put any words to herself. 

“No.” she moans, rubbing against her clit with her forefinger as she mutters to herself, “I want to fill you. I want to fuck you, in a way that no man should ever have the privilege of doing.”

“Tell me more, Ingrid,” dream-Dorothea whines, “tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

Ingrid gasps, transfixed by the authority of her voice. Though she’s on top in the fantasy, it’s Dorothea who’s to receive the pleasure, to receive the attention. 

“I’m going to take you, Dorothea. So wet, and so pretty. You’ll be full with me.”

“Will you make me your bride, Ingrid?” she inquires, voice laden with softness. Ingrid wants to scream, to yell, to tremble, at the beauty of her, at the privileges she’s being given.

“Always.”

Ingrid imagines herself sliding backwards on the bed, as awkward as she would be in real life, balanced on one hand as she uses the other to _position_ herself. Only when she’s hovering over the warmth of Dorothea’s pleasure does she stop; taking a ragged breath that’s matched with the real Ingrid’s ragged exhalations. In both worlds, she bites her lip; imagines the softness of Dorothea’s voice. 

  
“You want to.”

Whether it’s a command, a question-without-a-question-mark, or a simple statement- Ingrid doesn’t think too hard about it as she nods, and imagines herself spreading Dorothea open with her fingers. In her mind, Dorothea is as wet as she is, practically _soaked_ , and her walls are even softer, more wonderful to touch. 

The difference emerges when dream-Ingrid brings a hand down the shaft of her length, and kneels just right, so as the rigid material is positioned right over Dorothea’s entrance. Though Ingrid is fairly sure straps don’t work like that, she still envisions the friction on her selfhood as pleasurable, an imitation of the rather explicit description Sylvain had given her of the sensation (in retrospect, it was her fault for asking _him_ ). With the heel of her thumb on her clit, she brings her hand down onto herself, lets the arousal well and release at a gradual pace that can’t possibly match the rate at which it builds inside of her. 

The head of Ingrid’s strap is the first thing she imagines entering Dorothea. It’s a tender nub, with a hole at the very tip, and her first goal is to rub against Dorothea’s clit, just as she’s doing to herself inside the silence. She envisions herself building a rhythm, a pleasing series of waves, as Dorothea’s face starts to twist and flush with the pleasure of it. 

“Yes, Ingrid. It feels good, right?” 

It’s not as if Ingrid knows how it should feel, of course. But the fingers inside her make for a wonderful estimation of the sensation, so she nods, timing the motion of her head to the forward thrusting of her hips. And as her fingers dip deeper, pressing into her, she moves downwards on Dorothea, no longer rubbing, but filling. After a moment’s repositioning, it slips effortlessly into Dorothea’s warmth, slick and easy. As Ingrid envisioned mere minutes beforehand, she’s able to take the entirety of the strap without trouble (not solely because Ingrid wants her to- because she figures, sincerely, that she’d let Ingrid attempt to fit the entire thing in her). Her thighs are split open, widened for greater comfort, both of Dorothea’s hands gripping the white sheets taut, face still fierce. 

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

Ingrid borrows the words from real life- the one time Dorothea had picked Ingrid up to take her to football practice, after her family’s car had broken down. Back then, she’d insisted that they stopped at a fast food place on the way there, regardless of the oncoming rush of post-work traffic. Begrudgingly, Dorothea had allowed it- but not before uttering the words which become like music to Ingrid’s ears, now she’s found another way to make use of them. 

It’s so _vivid_ , and Ingrid _whines_. What she’d do to have Dorothea underneath her, or above her, somewhere else other than the blank canvas of her mind- she can’t begin to imagine it, not in its entirety. Instead, she imagines herself sinking deeper into Dorothea’s walls, tight and soft and accommodating of the significant girth Ingrid’s subconscious had decided she required. Her initial movements are rewarded by several breathy gasps from Dorothea’s throat, alongside the barely-audible whines resulting from her being _stretched_ like she is. 

Her movement begins, in-and-out, starting slow and tender. It’s calm enough for dream-Dorothea to lift her hand from where it keeps her steady on the bed and place it on the nape of her stomach, above the dark-brown thicket of hair which encircles her pussy. Ingrid imagines her feeling the shift of the toy inside her, already pressing deep simply by virtue of its _size_. 

“You look good like this,” Dorothea murmurs, “above someone. It’s much more your style.”

Her words of endearment, fabricated as they are, set Ingrid _off_ again. In her fantasy, she begins to move with greater vigor and confidence. Curled up in bed, she ruts against the knuckle of her forefinger, lets it dip _in_ and _out_ until the friction is rough and consistent. Both give her a rush; a solace; the lurid satisfaction of something forbidden showing itself to the light. 

She can’t articulate her thoughts well any more, but Dorothea can, her dialogue summoned from nothing near-instantaneously. This time, she doesn’t solely speak- the hand that’s not on her stomach detaches from the crumpled sheets, and comes to rest on Ingrid’s cheek. 

In that moment, some part of her chooses that when Dorothea’s hand comes to rest on her cheek, it doesn’t brush up against the hair which would likely ghost against her face were she positioned as dream-Ingrid is. In tandem with such a thought, the weight of her braids begins to dissipate from her fantasy, some great mass of hair no longer bouncing each time she thrusts into Dorothea. Instead, Dorothea’s hand only grazes a few loose blonde strands still hanging from a short, robust cut, the sort she knows she’ll never be able to get. She brushes the straggling hairs away from Ingrid’s eyes, marvelling at them as she does. 

  
“Green eyes. Like emeralds.” Dorothea muses. All of Ingrid’s mental energy goes into picturing the way her mouth might shift as she speaks, the softness of her lips and the wideness of her eyes. It’s not often that she enjoys receiving compliments from others, but when it’s from Dorothea, it’s- _different_. It’s like nothing else. 

“I have short hair.” Ingrid says in the fantasy.

_I have short hair_ , she whispers to herself, curled up as she is. 

“Of course you do.” Dorothea replies, a smirk on her face. “It looks good on you.”

_It looks good on me_. 

“Keep going, Ingrid.” Dorothea’s finger carves down Ingrid’s jawbone, a scalpel against the excess weight of her thoughts. “Neither of us are finished yet.” 

Ingrid screws her eyes shut tighter, and begins to grind down onto her fingers faster, coating them more thoroughly with slick and filling the dark silence with whispered gasps. Despite the weight of keeping them closed, Ingrid can’t bear to open her eyes, even only to the darkness. Shut so tightly, all she can see and feel is the mottled redness, filling itself with Dorothea’s warm and wanting presence. 

In her fantasy, Ingrid’s hips are thrusting faster, and stronger, with each movement she makes. Whatever part of her still yells at her that it is _wrong_ is silenced, in part, by the beautiful sensation of just imagining herself in that position.

The other part of it is muffled by the sheer thought of Dorothea, hair mussed and eyes fucked wide by _her_. From where Ingrid positions herself in the fantasy, she can see all of Dorothea, chest bare, with sweet thighs wrapping around her chest as she leans forward to _thrust_ , to _keep going_. Even as each wave of stimulation swamps her mind and marrs her vision, Ingrid can’t help emphasizing the bare plain of her pale stomach-flesh in her vision. 

_How much I want to kiss it, to leave my mark_ , she thinks. _How I wish to keep her, in all her infinite sweetness_. 

_Once I’m done_ , she decides, fucking deep into Dorothea once more. In her fantasy, her walls are perfectly snug, though they fit the entirety of the strap with little extra effort on either of their parts. Translating the sensations she’s imagining to her clit, already beginning to ache from overstimulation, is a messy process, but it’s _wonderful_ , too. As Ingrid nears her edge, and Dorothea follows her, she’s almost tempted to slow down, to prolong the fantasy of Dorothea’s walls contracting around her strap. But it’s a _hard_ , hard thing to compel herself to do. Not when the newly-raw sensation of overstimulation threatens to send her hurtling over the edge, teeth gritted and fingers brought to the point of jittering against her warmth. 

It’s not long before the last shreds of her composure dissipate, replaced with an unfamiliar shock that runs through her like a lightning bolt. Her entire body tenses, as if attempting to constrain the white-hot flow of the orgasm- but that, too, fails. The wave takes her, body and mind.

Inside her fantasy, both her and Dorothea come at once. Dorothea’s orgasm is much like her own- muscles clenching, walls contracting around her strap, a pitchy and beautiful _wail_. Ingrid has never been sure if Dorothea’s speaking voice is all that close to her singing voice, but in her mind, the sweet pitchiness of Dorothea’s orgasm is almost identical to it. Ingrid’s orgasm, as she imagines it, is mostly the same- despite the sensitivity of the strap, much of the quivering warmth is concentrated around where her own entrance is.

Except, when she pulls out of Dorothea, there’s an off-white, sticky residue filling her, to the point where some of it is beginning to slip out. Though Ingrid knows it’s some part of her that’s pushing her fantasy in this direction, Ingrid can’t help a muffled yelp at the thought of it. Or, more accurately, how much she likes it. 

  
“D-Dorothea.” In her fantasy, she still stammers, an apology quick to spring to her lips. But the hand that Dorothea has been keeping against Ingrid, steading both of them, moves to her face, a finger on her lips silencing her flushed insistence on absolution.

“You’re going to say sorry, aren’t you?” Dorothea murmurs, a coy smile firm on her face. “You shouldn’t. You enjoyed it, after all.”

Ingrid _wants_ to deny that, both in her fantasy and the real world. Something about coming on Dorothea- which isn’t even _possible_ \- feels so thoroughly perverse. But when she runs the image over again in her mind, a tape being rewound, she finds herself quivering at it, regardless of her having been spent mere minutes ago.

_Evidence_ \- it’s all her brain can offer her in explanation for the strange feeling. Still, Ingrid can’t help but think there’s something else intertwined. Either way, it’s almost futile to deny the truth that Dorothea (who is still a construct of her mind, who is in this form, nothing more) offers up to her. Something about Dorothea being filled with her come is exciting, it’s _hot_ , it’s almost _unbearable_. 

“I did.” Experimentally, she asks something of Dorothea directly. “Why?” 

Dorothea’s slim fingers ghost the soft skin of her face again, and come to twirl a strand of Ingrid’s blonde hair. 

“You want me to be yours, Ingrid.” 

Again, it’s nothing but _her_ , her imagination. Still, the use of her name startles Ingrid, makes her feel impossibly vulnerable.

“It’s a simple instinct. The need to have someone, to mark them as yours. Just like you were thinking about putting hickeys on my stomach.”

_Oh._

“People want to have you, Ingrid. But you’re the protective type, more than they’ll ever be.” 

One of Dorothea’s fingers wicks down Ingrid’s nose, as if she’s some playful little animal, and she can barely stomach that she’s being torn apart at the seams by her own repressed subconscious. All while she hasn’t even removed her fingers from idly lingering in her own warmth. 

“You want to have me. You want to fuck me, and come in me, and make me pregnant with your children.”

Even if Ingrid isn’t particularly aroused, _per se_ , Dorothea’s words excite her. She can barely stifle her little gasps, her peals of obedient acknowledgement. Not when it’s true. Because the thought of a man having her, filling her with himself, her own body growing heavy and sore with child- it’s so deeply undesirable that Ingrid shudders at the mere thought of it. It’s always been a part of the inevitable for her, nothing she can say no to. 

But Dorothea, positively dripping with her release- it’s something else. Carnal, rough, and wonderful. Ingrid can’t help feeling like a bird learning for the first time to fly, fulfilling some biological directive it had somehow missed all of its life. Perhaps Ingrid can’t stand it for herself, but _Goddess_ , if she _hasn’t_ stumbled across something so deeply gratifying she could almost weep from it, she’s not sure what she’s stumbled upon.

“Perhaps.” Ingrid murmurs, as if she can still play coy. “I might be a little territorial.” 

“Very Faerghian of you. But I trust that you’ll take care of me when it takes, hm?” 

“Goddess, Dorothea, of course. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave you alone.” Without prompting, Ingrid sinks down onto the bed where Dorothea lays, sinking close to the warmth of her skin. One hand ends up propped on the smooth skin of her stomach, while the other plugs into the soft folds of Dorothea’s pleasure, pushing in the sticky release as Dorothea giggles. 

“You’re tickling me, Ingrid.” She sounds so _mirthful_ , and Ingrid knows that even if she can’t say it to her, even the fantasy of hearing Dorothea’s gentle laugh forever is a want more dear to her than all the wealth of the world.

But her fingers ache, and no truthful part of her can say forever is at all possible. 

-

Ingrid doesn’t tell Dorothea how she feels.

She does, however, cut her hair. It’s hardly an impulsive decision, made instead after a week’s worth of insistence that she’s able to visit the hair salon without constant parental oversight. A few pictures of an ideal hairstyle collage sent to her mother is all it takes for her to concede the matter to Ingrid, in the end, reassured that Ingrid won’t do something- in her words- _crazy_. 

As much as it shames her, Ingrid doesn’t _mind_ that she’s letting her mother down. Nor is it something she does solely for Dorothea- after all, she isn’t sure if Dorothea actually _cares_ , if she’ll actually _like_ Ingrid with shorter hair. 

She does it, for the first time, for herself. She looks up a list of the positive aspects of long hair, just in case she really, _truly_ has to justify her decision to someone. But it’s not _about_ the weight which drops from her shoulder when the kindly, androgynous stylist Ingrid picks out specifically brings sleek scissors to all of the blonde strands which descend beneath the bottom of her skull. Nor is it about the ease of maintenance, or the potential braiding techniques, or the historical fashion styles that Ingrid does, admittedly, like.

_She_ wants it. In each fantasy she has, where Dorothea touches her so sweetly and so willingly, her hair is short; and if it’s to be the only part of the dream she can live out, then so be it. The exaggerated horror on her parents’ face when she steps carefree through the arching doorway to their home does not deter her; nor does it fill her with regret. Instead, there is some strange pride which takes seed inside of her, which wraps its vines around her and compels her to respond to the hostile glances with nothing but tempered goodwill. 

“It looks lovely, doesn’t it?” 

It’s the only thing she offers to her father when she catches him _staring_ , as if he’s a vampire stuck frozen still at the encroaching sunrise. 

_What won’t say to my face_ , Ingrid tells herself, _doesn’t mean anything to me_. 

The hair is gone, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

When Dorothea leaves for university, a week before Ingrid goes herself, they share a hug. Dorothea smiles at her, and Ingrid feels her warmth, perhaps for the last time in a while.

“I want you to have this.” Ingrid murmurs, with Dorothea’s head resting soft on the mountain’s-ridge of her shoulder. Her heart rate raises as Ingrid says the words, and Ingrid can’t help but be charmed by the jumping little _beat_ of it. 

_This_ is a thin bracelet, one that Ingrid bought with the spare shreds of her birthday money. It’s simple, faux-silver, but there’s a real-if-small red gemstone embedded in the pendant which dangles from the band. The navy-blue box is tucked in the pocket of her high-waist jeans, and it takes a skilled maneuver for her to wriggle an arm free of Dorothea’s all-encompassing touch and dig into where it’s kept. After fishing it out, Ingrid slips it into Dorothea’s palm, which opens for her as she hovers the gift over her hand. 

“You’ve done so much for me.” Ingrid sighs, wistful. Half of her energy goes into restraining the tears which threaten to slip from her, the other half still holding Dorothea’s warmth close and tender. “I can’t even begin to thank you, Dorothea.”

“You don’t have to.” Ingrid doesn’t solely hear the words- she _feels_ them, the reverberations of Dorothea’s throat soothing against her body. It’s an impossible pleasure, to be forgiven her need. “I’ll always treasure you, Ingrid.”

Dorothea withdraws, slow, holding the box in her hands like some sacred artifact. Gently, she opens the domed velvet lid, exposing the jewellery contained inside. Ingrid practically bathes in the way Dorothea’s eyes light up with sweet gratitude at the sight, feels it all over like a warm and sweeping wave. 

“Oh, Ingrid. You’re so sweet to me, you know that?”

Ingrid blushes, cheeks warm enough that she _knows_ , even without being able to see her own face. Her hands come together in humble acknowledgement, and she almost bows.

“I hope you’ll remember me.” 

Dorothea giggles, pitchy, as if Ingrid’s sentiment is inherently ridiculous. Ingrid can’t help but blush even deeper at the lilting little laugh, as joyous and wonderful as it is. In that moment, she wants to remain in that time and place forever, where Dorothea laughs at the idea that Ingrid isn’t important to her, that she could somehow _forget_ their time together. 

“I’ll never forget.” Dorothea assures her, slipping the bracelet around her wrist. To Ingrid’s happiness, it fits near-perfectly, a victory for her estimations (because _of course_ she wasn’t going to ask her how wide her wrist is). When Dorothea holds up her arm, overhead lamp glinting off of the silver construction, Ingrid thinks she could faint. 

“Do you like it?” Ingrid asks, flushed, like she’s a schoolgirl again. 

Once more, Dorothea giggles. 

“I adore it, Ingrid. My _favourite_ colour.” Her voice is exaggerated, but not in a mocking fashion, reminding Ingrid instead of an actress from a vintage romance. “And so _pretty_. You say you don’t have an eye for style, but I must say, you’ve come in clutch for me here.”

“That’s just because of you, Dorothea.” Ingrid confesses. “I picked what I thought you’d pick for yourself. I’m glad that I was right.”

“It’s like you know me,” Dorothea coos, “and I’ll make sure to take this wherever I go.” 

Ingrid’s heart is full, then, almost to the point of overflow. Still, she keeps resisting the need for tears. Dorothea holds her again, braces her head against her shoulder, and Ingrid knows that she can simply be, that she can love as she is.

Perhaps not now. But, one day. 

In the next fantasy Ingrid has, curled up in the unfamiliar comfort of her university bed, Dorothea is wearing the bracelet, and precious little else. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> this is the first time i've written dorogrid, and i hope i've done them justice. 
> 
> feel free to follow me on twitter @meowcosm or leave a kudos/comment.


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